Choosing the name “Rhea” was not intentionally big-headed. I was looking for a motherly goddess who was earthly and smart and whose name started with the letter “R.” I found places where Rhea, the goddess, was referred to as the “inescapable mother,” and seeing as I often sit home stalking the Facebook profiles of my older children, I thought perhaps this was a godly chic I could relate to. The truth is (as I’ve come to see it), Rhea was one mighty awesome mythical mother goddess. She’s old, established, loud, and smart. She rides lions. She fools Time. She sets shit in motion. Her place in the history of all being is quite purposeful. I like that idea – of being purposeful, of making an impact, of stirring shit up.
Rhea was a Greek earth goddess, the daughter of Gaia and Uranus, a.k.a. Earth and Sky, gods of Mt. Olympus. Rhea was the mother to Demeter and Hades and Poseidon and even Zeus for crying out loud. Her brother and husband (!), Cronos, castrated the father Uranus (a plan set in motion by his mother Gaia who had provided the sickle with which to do it). Without his penis, Uranus was massively weakened, downright ungodly, and surely highly distracted, so Cronos was able to defeat him. Cronos and Rhea became king and queen of the gods during the Golden Age. Cronos came to fear his own children might indeed strive to cut off his penis so he decided he would eat all of his offspring. Naturally.
The most glorious story is of how Rhea saved her boy, Zeus, from being eaten up by his father, Cronos also Kronus, the Father Time, also Saturn (in Roman circles). Rhea was smart and instead of handing over her son to be popped like a pill, she handed over a stone the size of an infant swaddled in cloth. Cronos swallowed the pseudo baby (then burped?). Rhea hid little Zeus in Crete where little Zeus suckled the tit of a goat or a cousin or a cousin who was in fact a goat. When Zeus was grown, he did indeed dethrone Cronos (see: Clash of the Titans) and forced him to vomit up all of his children. However, it is good to note that before Zeus came to power, humans were said to have lived throughout the Golden Age rather blissfully. There was no pain, death, disease, hunger, or any other evil (aside from gods eating their babies and whatnot). When Zeus came to power, he put an end to humankind's happiness – all thanks to Rhea, really, who was just trying to keep her son from being ingested. Luckily, the bad ass Athena came along and ripped herself out of her father’s skull. This is my best understanding of a complex story, a beautifully complex story.
The name “Rhea” comes from words meaning “flow” and “ease.” I like this because I consider myself easy-going and open-minded (all considered). (The name is also – somehow – connected to the word “pomegranate,” and I like pomegranates just fine too.) It takes a lot to stress me out, to keep me from walking right through a storm. I have learned that storms are livable, and of course storms are tough and scary – and beautiful. They teach you to grow your roots deeper. The deeper meaning behind “ease” and “flow” lies in the fact that Rhea represented the eternal flow of time and generations as the great Mother; the "flow" was menstrual blood, birth waters, and milk. Although the act is not 100% pretty, the livid physicality of the act of reproduction is undeniably gorgeous. I’m quite familiar with it; I’ve birthed four children, the first of which was in 1990 when I was 16.
In art, Rhea is often depicted on a throne flanked by lions or in a chariot pulled by lions or actually riding a lion. The lion was sacred to this mother of the gods because it was declared the most important of all animals on earth (see: Lion King). I love lions – particularly lionesses. I love the idea of the pride more so than the muscle and the mane. I love how the pride is self-sustaining and safe, a group of female lions coming together to raise future generations, to make sure all have food, to protect one another while they sleep.
I like the stories of Rhea as a goddess who sat among the people announcing her ever-presence by beating on a bronze drum, warning the world to take heed of her oracle, her oracle that could announce greatness or doom (most often doom, given the whole rise of Zeus alongside misery). I like to think of writing as an oracle of sorts. I am still in the process of fine-tuning my declarations, of shaping and tightening my drum. Thus far, I have learned that children do in fact strive to chop off their father’s penises (if only metaphorically). Young people often fail to choose their lovers well. Parents make incredible sacrifices, and, sometimes, their children still grow up to make terrible mistakes or to be pompous assholes. I’m not sure what there is to do about any of this. One day, I might have all the answers. I’ll give you my words.
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